Buffoonery and Rejecting the Bro-Code

This week I'm wrong about Shakespeare, plus rain jackets, food categorization, and shuffled playlists

Get thee to Staunton, Virginia!

This past weekend was the 7th edition of my favorite tradition: one of my closest friends and I made our annual pilgrimage to Staunton, Virginia to see a production at the American Shakespeare Center. The ASC’s Blackfriars Playhouse is an absolutely incredible theater—a replica of Shakespeare’s winter stage, with a company that performs 3 productions a season. The productions heavily involve the audience and use universal lighting—as they say, “we do it with the lights on.” If you ever have an excuse to travel to central Virginia and want to spend a day in a charming town full of quaint shops and restaurants settled on the edge of the Blue Ridge, then take it. I have never regretted a trip.

This past weekend was especially wonderful because we saw my favorite work of Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing. It was my third time seeing Much Ado in Staunton, but I also love the Kenneth Branagh film version (which we watched last night), and I’ve generally sought out every version of the play I can find over the last decade+ (including an excellent high school production at a former workplace). It features my all-time favorite pre-kiss line (I will stop your mouth). I would kill for a Ten Things I Hate About You-style film adaptation.

None of these actors have ever looked better than they did in this movie

The play is most famous for it’s central enemies-to-lovers storyline, as rivals Benedick and Beatrice, who spend the opening acts playfully belittling one another, are tricked (or have their eyes opened) by the other characters into falling (or realizing they are) in love with one another. The funniest scenes in any production feature the pair overhearing how the other is desperately enamored with them.

The version I saw this weekend (which was, predictably, excellent) got me thinking more about this pairing, and how it captures what makes the enemies-to-lovers trope work (or not work)—and how in doing so it skewers fragile masculinity and the destructive paranoia it creates.

First, important context for those unfamiliar with the play.

I love Shakespearean comedy because it’s disturbing—the conclusions, read critically, are often dark and upsetting. Much Ado is no exception, and most of that tension comes through the treatment of Hero, a young woman whose marriage is central to the story. Her engagement to Claudio, who is usually portrayed as a young heartthrob, is initially almost prevented by his irrational jealousy—and then he is tricked a second time into believing she is cheating on him. He violently rejects her at the altar and barely shows remorse when she is (falsely) reported dead in the aftermath. His repentance when proved wrong doesn’t do enough to make his eventual marriage to Hero feel deserved or earned, even though many productions portray it as a happy outcome. And Hero’s treatment by almost every other significant male character is almost as disturbing—Don Pedro, usually portrayed as a paragon of virtue and dignity, is just as easily tricked as Claudio and takes part in her humiliation. Her father initially doesn’t even try to defend her, but instead wishes she would die—and when he is eventually convinced to believe her, his instinct is not to comfort or directly support his daughter, but instead to seek violent retribution against the men who disgraced her— and then when she is proven innocent, he actively marries her to the man who put her through that trauma. All of these characters, in one way or another, treat Hero as an object whose value comes from their perception of her purity and how it reflects on them, and have their paranoid insecurities stoked with little resistance or self-reflection.

Why is this parallel plot-line important to Benedick and Beatrice? Because it illuminates the respect that undergirds their relationship. Benedick’s willingness to publicly spar with (and frankly, be bested by) Beatrice is entertaining to the other characters and to us, but also displays a strange sort of humility and admiration. When other characters experience conflict with a woman (Hero), they never seek her perspective or engage directly with her. Benedick spends the entire play in dialogue with Beatrice, actively responding to her in both playful and serious moments. He may be attempting to insult her or make fun of her, but the fact he does so on her terms, directly engaging with her wordplay and her perspective, demonstrates his regard for her. He’s a buffoon, but a buffoon who can play along with those laughing at him without losing his confidence or giving in to insecurity.

That’s also the reason Beatrice keeps engaging with him—other male characters quickly retreat when she attempts to verbally duel with them, not reciprocating her playfulness (and often dismissing her viability as a romantic partner while doing so) in order to protect themselves from perceived humiliation. Benedick keeps willingly embracing their conflicts. She keeps “attacking” Benedick because he’s not afraid to tangle with her, even at the risk of losing face, and that implicit respect is something she doesn’t get from any other man.

The point is hammered home by the circumstances in which they admit they love one another. He is the only man (other than the priest) to express concern for Hero after her rejection at the altar. He actively checks in on Beatrice’s well-being in the aftermath. And when they mutually admit their feelings, he demonstrates that he does, in fact, respect her—she demands that he challenge Claudio and put aside his friendship with Don Pedro because of their actions. These are his two closest friends, and masculine ethics—the bro code, if you will—would seem to demand he take their side. Instead, he listens to Beatrice and his own conscience, and uses the platform of his male privilege to make Claudio and Don Pedro feel the cowardice and paranoia of their behavior. After the hilarity of the opening acts, Benedick and Beatrice actually come together in a moment of somber thoughtfulness and action, and he demonstrates respect for her in both settings.

Benedick’s willingness to be laughed at, to change his mind, to listen—even when overshadowed by his performative buffoonery—are what make him a compelling match for Beatrice. Every other man in the play is so fundamentally ruled by their fears—of humiliation, of losing power, of being dishonored—that they retreat into fragile, misogynistic outrage of one kind or another in a crucial moment. Benedick’s manhood isn’t so delicate, and it’s why he’s able to meaningfully give and receive love and respect from a woman smarter than him.

The best enemies-to-lovers stories work because they capture the importance of that mutual respect. Mr. Darcy doesn’t capture Elizabeth’s interest until he fully shows his respect and admiration for her in a letter. Harry needs to grow as a person before he can be with Sally, but he almost immediately respects her as someone worthy of his attention and engagement. In contrast, I watched The Ugly Truth a few weeks ago, and while entertaining, the story didn’t quite land for me because Gerard Butler’s character never fully lets go of his fear of humiliation enough to actively demonstrate respect for Katherine Heigl’s protagonist.

I love Much Ado because Benedick, whether or not he’s aware of it, always respects Beatrice. He learns how to better express that respect, but doesn’t have to learn to have it. And that respect, along with his resilient self-esteem, allows him to transcend the destructiveness of the fragile male ego.

I Don’t Believe in Raincoats

I’ll keep this brief—if it’s raining, I truly, fundamentally believe I’m just supposed to be wet. Mother Earth has spoken, and who am I to say no? I never wear raincoats.

I grudgingly, at times, when it’s especially torrential, will use an umbrella. But I resent the fact I have to carry it around and I usually end up leaving it behind somewhere.

Raincoats are hot—I get sweaty inside them, which is almost like getting rained on except the rain smells like BO. I just skip the smelly middle-man.

My legs and feet still get wet. I do wear boots—wet socks are no fun—but why not just balance out my upper and lower bodies? If my legs are wet, why do I need dry arms? I don’t. Being halfway wet and halfway dry is indecisive, and I’m a man of conviction. I commit.

Standing in the rain without a raincoat is also, let’s be honest, kind of sexy. There’s a reason we remember The Notebook. Or that one gif of David Tennant. If I want to look appealingly somber and dramatic, a raincoat is just getting in the way.

I’m starting the anti-raincoat revolution and I want you to join me.

A Conversation About Food

I don’t know who first brought this up to me, but I’ve spent the past few days discussing what foods have high or low ceilings and floors. Meaning, what foods can be transcendently good (high ceiling) or are hard to mess up (high floor), or can be absolutely horrible if done wrong (low floor) or are hard to make really excellent (low ceiling).

Here’s what I’ve come up with:

High ceiling, high floor—Pizza. The best pizza is a religious experience, but the worst slice of pizza is still pretty good (I think carb and cheese heavy foods often fall into this category).

High ceiling, low floor—Sushi. Honestly, most seafood probably ends up here.

Low ceiling, low floor—Oatmeal. It can be OK, but nobody thinks about the best bowl of oatmeal they’ve ever had. And runny oatmeal is pretty gross.

Low ceiling, high floor—Corndogs. I have never had one corndog better or worse than another. They’re all pretty good but never excellent. (I want to be clear that K-dogs are not included here and have a high ceiling).

One Last Thought

One of my pet peeves is how Spotify shuffle does not actually shuffle playlists randomly. I have very long (1000+ song) playlists where I like to listen to every song about the same amount, but if you just hit shuffle, it will run through the same 50 or so songs over and over. And those songs are chosen through some sort of algorithm that attempts to guess what you most want to listen to.

It is actually impossible (!) to set the shuffle function so that the next song is truly random. Not one music streaming service, including Spotify, has a pure shuffle function.

Well guess what, Spotify—I reject your algorithm. I will not be boxed in by analytics. I crave randomness.

To solve this problem, I listen to my playlists without shuffle in alphabetical order. All the a-songs, then the b-songs, etc. That way I hear every song once, and then I can restart the playlist or start another one. It’s not random, but it’s as close as I can get.

I’ve been told this is “weird” or “disturbing” or “potentially psychopathic.” But I think it’s a problem with the shuffle function, and I refuse to change until my needs are addressed.

Anyway, here’s my favorite playlist if it interests you.